The Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, the Right Honourable Nicholas Hunt, knew what he was talking about. Two thousand acres of prime farmland in the Cotswolds, with a stately home and the guaranteed title of Lord, once his father, the ailing incumbent, succumbed to the cancer that racked his body. He was personable and popular and his constant appearances on the television discussing food production and the environment were always well received.
He was a polished performer, genuinely committed to the process of democracy, even touted as a future Prime Minister. Good-looking, with an accent indicative of the education he had received at Eton, the school of choice for the male elite, and an easy manner that charmed the ladies. If it hadn’t been the video of a threesome with a couple of young ladies that the press had somehow obtained a copy of, and the headline the next day stating ‘The Right Honourable Gentleman gets a Right Honourable Threesome’, he would have maintained his position.
The Prime Minister knew, from the first moment he had seen the video of the two women and the naked minister that Nicholas Hunt would have to go. It was the third day when the Right Honourable Minister tended his resignation.
‘In the interests of the country and the party, I hereby resign with immediate effect. I wish my successor well.’
The subsequent picture of him standing with his wife at his side smiling, holding hands was an exercise in subterfuge. She’d already packed her bags and, in six months’ time, she intended to take him to the cleaners. There was a nice house in Kensington that would form part of the settlement as well as half of his cash assets, most of which were stashed overseas.
It was into this void that Anne Argento surfaced. Constant criticism about the poor representation of women in cabinet and Anne’s obvious expertise in matters related to the environment, food, and rural affairs ensured her the position. The Prime Minister’s hand had been forced.
It was a masterful stroke on her part. She cared little for the environment, only knew that food was for eating and that rural affairs had something to do with the countryside, and she loathed the open air. Inner city life was where she wanted to be, not out tramping through fields, admiring a cow or a horse or a sheep. The two women in the former minister’s office were a plant which she had organised, and the photos came courtesy of a contact, adept at filming the unfaithful and the indiscreet.
Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin never knew the story of how Anne Argento rose to the ministry. Both would have been shocked if told. They never received any communication from her, either, before or after thanking them for their assistance in making her an expert on a subject that held little interest for her.
***
Logistically, it had been difficult, but with Faisal Aslam overseeing the operation, it was to go flawlessly, apart from three of the martyrs who were not convinced. Durrani had personally set the hidden timers for eight minutes past nine, the busiest time in most of the public houses in London. The martyrs had clear instructions to press their triggers at precisely ten minutes past the hour, but he had little faith in their ability to find the button or to even get the time right.
‘These vests, they can’t be taken off. Is that clear?’ Durrani informed the assembled group.
‘What do you mean?’ There was always one with a stupid question and, as expected, it was Amr Yaseen. The previous close encounter with the detachment of his manhood from his body should have taught him to be quiet, but it had not.
‘If you attempt to pull the vest over your head, the cord will pull. It’s tied around your groin. Any tension will trigger the bomb.’
‘I don’t want to do this,’ one of the others said. ‘I’ve got my mates and my parents. They’re fixing me up with a woman to marry from the home village back in the Punjab.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ Durrani replied. ‘Besides, I’ve arranged seventy-two virgins for you. Isn’t that a better deal?’
‘My mate, Billy, says it’s all nonsense,’ the prospective bridegroom said.
‘Billy? Who’s this Billy?’ Durrani asked. ‘It doesn’t sound like a good Muslim name.’
‘He’s one of our gang.’
‘And where does he come from?’
‘He was born close to where I come from.’
‘Is he a good Muslim boy?’ Durrani asked.
‘Nah, he’s Irish, a Catholic. But he doesn't go to church or anything like that.’
‘You are friends with the infidels?’ Durrani was both angry and frustrated.
‘Yeah, he’s a good guy, a mate.’
‘Your Billy is wrong. We are taught the truth from the holy book, not from some hooligan infidel,’ Durrani emphasised.
He directed his gaze towards Khalid. ‘Look after this fool. If he doesn’t do what he’s told, cut off his prick and push him through the door of the pub. Unconscious or conscious, he will complete the task.’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ Khalid replied.
‘No, don’t cut my dick off. I need it for the virgins,’ Billy’s mate cried out.
‘If you studied the holy books,’ said Durrani, annoyed that he was forced to deal with such stupidity, ‘you would know that you will be whole when you enter Jannah. What do you think will remain after the bombs explode? Anyone want to ask a question?’
‘How long do we wait in the public house before we leave?’ Amr Yaseen still struggled with the concept.
‘Mustafa, you better take this one. Any problems, you know what to do.’
‘It will be my pleasure. I’ve brought a blunt knife.’
At precisely nine in the evening on the Saturday, the twelve entered their nominated locations. Khalid and Mustafa had not used their knives, although one of the twelve had tried to run down the road just before entering the door of the public house in Twickenham. Akram, his minder and a dedicated follower of Islam and the Islamic State, had cornered him, punched him hard in the face and put him in a seat by a corner in the window. Standing up in the middle of the bar would have been better, but it would suffice. There were sufficient explosives in his vest to destroy three-quarters of the building, as well as kill all the drinkers inside.
***
Across town in two locations, one in the front room of a nondescript suburban house, the other an office at New Scotland Yard, two conversations were taking place based on the one subject: where was Seamus Gilligan?
‘We still need to find him,’ Isaac Cook said in the offices of Counter Terrorism Command, while he made a cup of coffee for himself and Ed Pickles. No sugar for Isaac, three for Ed.
‘Where do we look?’ Ed asked.
‘He’s got no money, no home and he’s probably not feeling overly cheerful.'
‘You’ve done the courses, what do you think?’ Ed Pickles was always a little critical of the modern method of policing, where skills were learnt in a classroom in simulated exercises. He still felt that out on the street, doing the leg work was where you gained experience, where you learnt to understand how the criminal mind worked.
‘He’ll go where he feels secure. That’s what the manual would say. It’s the normal behaviour in times of severe stress to head back to the nest.’
‘I could have told you that without the psychoanalytical nonsense,’ Ed Pickles said scathingly. ‘He’s going back to Ireland – Donegal, to be more precise.’
‘He’s walking into a trap.’
‘He’s desperate. He’s not thinking straight,’ Ed replied.
‘We’ve got to find him first,’ Isaac replied.
‘Do you think the voice knows where he’s heading?’ Ed put forward a rhetorical question.
‘We must assume he does. Maybe he’s there already?’
‘No, his people are not there yet,’ Ed replied.
‘How do you know that?’
‘I asked a contact of mine with the Irish police to keep a lookout on the place. Told him it was related to a bank robbery in London and that Gilligan had double-crossed his accomplices.’
‘Good work,’ said Isaac. ‘Do you think they’re up to surveillance without being seen?’
‘I’d reckon so. They’ve had years of dealing with the IRA.’
Isaac Cook and Ed Pickles wanted Seamus Gilligan alive. Across town, another group of individuals did not. They clearly wanted him dead.
‘Gilligan did not give me a forwarding address,’ Faisal Aslam said.
‘Is that a concern? He did what was asked of him,’ said Fuad al-Jabouri. The owner of a chain of takeaway kebab shops throughout Greater London, he was disturbed by the seduction of the Islamic youth to the Western standard of moral decadence. He had arrived in England thirty years previous with no English, a limited education and a determination to make good. The suburbs of Baghdad were both corrupt and unpleasant when he had left. In England, he saw the possibilities. Vibrant, dynamic and well-organised, he embraced the Western lifestyle while maintaining the better parts of his Islamic tradition. He had married late, ten years after his arrival.
Fuad al-Jabouri’s conversion to Islamic fundamentalism was as inevitable as it was unexpected. His son, a good student, doing well at school, had succumbed to drugs – cocaine first, ultimately heroin. He now lived in a squat down near Camden, lost to the world.
His daughter, a bright-eyed, pretty woman with dark eyes and the spitting image of her mother at a similar age, was totally Westernised and living with a boyfriend down close to the Thames in Putney.
‘You have become a slut,’ Fuad attempted to dissuade his daughter.
‘Ken’s a good person,’ she had replied. ‘You said so yourself. Besides, no one gets married these days.’
‘I brought you up in this country to respect the ways of our forefathers, to follow Islam and the teachings of the Prophet.’
‘Dad, this in England. I was born here. What do I want with something medieval?’
‘It is your heritage, your religion, your future.’ Fuad Al-Jabouri attempted to reason with his daughter. ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’
‘It’s your future,’ his daughter replied. ‘My future is here with Ken, and he doesn’t want anything to do with religion, and neither do I. Sorry, but that’s the way it is. I’m over eighteen, and it’s a free country. I wish you’d understand, but if you can’t, then there’s no more I can say or do.’
He had no alternative but to accept his daughter’s decision. He even paid the rent where she lived in sin, but he failed to accept that there was no hope of redemption. He came to see that the installation of Islam as the predominant religion in the United Kingdom would bring back laws renouncing unmarried relationships, and enforce the modest behaviour of women. It may even save his son, Jalal, but he wasn’t sure that was possible.
‘Gilligan knows my voice. If they get to him first, they could trace me,’ Faisal Aslam said.
‘Who are they?’ Fuad Al-Jabouri asked.
‘Counter Terrorism Command and they don’t play by the rules.’
‘They all play by the rules. That’s why we get away with our activities here.’
‘These guys don’t, and if they get a whiff of who I am, then we’re in for real trouble.’
‘So, we get Gilligan. Where do you think he is?’
‘Back home with his mother,’ Faisal Aslam said. ‘Or, at least she’ll know where he is.’
‘You have a plan?’ Al-Jabouri asked.
‘Of course I do. We’ve already put some people in place checking the ferry ports here in England, and then we have some people in Ireland. The moment he shows his head, we’ll put it on a spike.’
‘Spike? Literally or metaphorically?’ Al-Jabouri asked.
‘Fuad, I realise your English is better than mine. No, it will not be a spike, but he’ll be dead.’
‘He could take a plane,’ Al-Jabouri suggested.
‘Unlikely, as they’ll ask for identification,’ said Faisal Aslam. ‘He’s almost certainly aiming to keep his head down.’
***
South West Wales on a blustery day was not the most agreeable of places, but it was there that the two opposing groups congregated. One was on the ground, the other was monitoring the numerous CCTV cameras throughout the town and at the ferry terminal.
Hamza Sheikh was a Welshman through and through. He even spoke the ancient Celtic language of Wales. Religion had not been an overriding force in his life as a child and as a teen. There had just been too many other pursuits: school, which he loved, and then, in his teens, a few too many girls. He had been on the rugby team at school, even played for the Welsh Juniors when they beat the English in a close final some years previous. He was a big, strapping lad in his early twenties, but a broken marriage, a child who had been fatally injured when he’d run out in front of a bus, had left him distraught and demoralised. It was Mullah Adnan who had shown him the reason for his troubles.
‘You have placed your life in the hand of the infidel. You have embraced their lifestyle and neglected Allah,’ the Mullah would say.
‘I have committed to my prayers. I have stayed true to my religion,’ Hamza in reply would say.
‘But when you pray, is it with a true commitment, or are you just mouthing the words?’ asked the Mullah.
‘It is true,’ said Hamza. ‘Sometimes, it has been to satisfy my father. There have been times when my mind has been elsewhere.’
‘Then you cannot expect Allah, peace be upon him, to care for your life and that of your family.’ With constant repeating and looking for answers, Hamza became a born-again Muslim. To serve his people was all he required and it was the Mullah who directed him to the service of Islamic fundamentalism.
It was Islamic fundamentalism that drove him to maintain a vigilant look-out at the ferry terminal on a wet and unpleasant day, with a wind that cut through the body like a knife. He would have stood outside for a better view, but the car had a heater. The visibility, restricted as the wipers slowly moved across the windscreen, did not hamper his ability to recognise Seamus Gilligan as he walked across the parking area, heading in the direction of the ferry.
‘It’s him. I’m one hundred percent certain,’ Hamza Sheikh said.
‘Good, you have served the cause well. We will ensure that he is met on the other side,’ the mysterious voice said over the phone. Faisal Aslam did not reveal his identity.
In London, there was a similar declaration from an eager operative sitting at a console monitoring CCTV footage from Wales.
‘I’ve got him. Facial recognition has confirmed his identity.’
‘Ed, we need to get to Ireland,’ said Isaac. ‘Your contact, can he meet us on the ferry’s arrival?’
‘He’ll be there. What about the stake-out at the mother’s house?’ Ed asked.
‘We better leave it in place,’ replied Isaac. ‘Monitor her, look for any unusual behaviour. We don’t want to lose either Gilligan or the mother now.’
***
The Honourable Anne Argento savoured her ministerial office from the first day. However, it had been four months, and she had seen enough of muddy fields, chicken processing plants and smelly farm animals to last her a lifetime. Then there was that buffoon sitting up in Number 10 making a right hash of the current bombings around the country.
Four months previous and the title of The Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs had been sufficient for a daughter of Italian peasants. In politics, one day is a long time and, for Anne Argento, it had been an eternity, and somebody had to save her country, England, from the scourge of Islam.
Clifford Bell had been a good Prime Minister, even she would agree, but overseeing the improvement in the economy, the strengthening of the pound and the introduction of a range of improved social services was not going to deal with the decaying situation in England, let alone Europe. She could see that Prime Minister Bell’s consensus management of the situation, the willingness to engage in meaningful discussion, an embracing of all religions and all peoples, wasn’t going to work. It needed some
one tough, someone ruthlessly tough. It needed Anne Argento, and she was not reticent in saying it to herself and any others who were willing to listen.
She was a politician, a tough, no-holds-barred type of politician and she was going for the top job. No one was going to stop her.
There had been a couple of potential husbands, now discarded, and an on-going affair with the editor of a major newspaper, but neither the media nor the public showed much concern over her unusual sleeping arrangements with the journalist, senior as he may have been. What concerned them were her sultry looks, her firm yet still curvaceous figure, and the fact that she was tough and a consummate politician. There had already been speculation in the press of her making a run for the top job, a future Prime Minister, but she always stood firmly behind her dear friend Clifford.
Secretly, she was shoring up her position, biding her time. But it was clear that, if her dear friend Clifford didn’t stop the rash of bombings, then he had three months at most and then she’d sort out the bombings herself. The teachings of Machiavelli guided her in her march, almost a run, towards Downing Street. He would also guide her in the resolution of the scourge of Islamic fundamentalism, the madness that was consuming England and Europe.
Chapter 6
The media portrayed it as the worst bombing attack on London since the Second World War when the German Luftwaffe attempted to bomb England into submission. To Durrani, it was a validation of his bomb-making skills, to Faisal Aslam, his logistical skills.
‘We have struck a great blow for our cause,’ Faisal Aslam said. ‘Our Islamic brothers will be rejoicing. We have shown the infidel, the crusader, that we are a force not to be ignored. Soon they will bow to our will. Soon we will take this country for Islam.’
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 46
